


Bloodstains and Charred Coattails

by juicebat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dry Cleaners, Fluff, Horrible Misuse of Bespoke Suits, Humor, John is a Saint, John-centric, M/M, Mildest of mild angst, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juicebat/pseuds/juicebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, to the average passerby, was a clean, well-mannered, orderly man. Just a quiet veteran, taking care of the family business. Sherlock Holmes knows better.</p>
<p>(Or: Sherlock Holmes loves making messes, and John Watson loves cleaning them up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Pity

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came to me in the middle of the night, while I was trying to go to sleep and reading a S/J fic where someone was bleeding all over Sherlock. Many fics (and the show itself) reference how Sherlock brings most of his fancy suits to the dry cleaners, and it dawned on me that I've never seen DryCleaner!John, and now here we are.

When John was young, his mother dressed him every morning for school in a clean white shirt, ironed with care. His pants, subject to more variety, were jeans and cargo shorts until he turned eight, when his mother ceased to stock his drawers with clean clothes.

The morning of his birthday, his mother carefully wrapped him up in a woolen jumper a size too large, a soft green scarf, and led him out into the October wind. They walked for ten minutes, down sidestreets, mother calling out hellos to other acquaintances bustling about in the Saturday chill, until they reached a small confectionery shop.

The man at the counter smiled warmly at John and his mother, and bustled off to the back cheerily. John came face to face with his mother as she crouched down to remove the scarf from John’s face, her cheeks and nose flushed red with the cold. “Johnny, today’s your birthday, so I had Mr. Hughes here make you something special- don’t forget to say thank you when he brings it out.” John nodded seriously, standing up a little straighter. He was eight, practically an adult, and he was _very_ good at remembering his manners.

As John’s mother straightened, brushing the creases back into her overcoat, Mr. Hughes came back through the swinging doors, bringing with him the scent of fresh cake and melting chocolate. He came around the corner, and presented a small white cake box with a flourish, the movement loosening a cloud of flour from his apron. 

John, after seeking his mother’s look of approval, received the box with a solemn air. “Thank you very much, Mister Hughes.” He recited carefully, trying to maintain his serious facade. He was bubbling with excitement— the man in front of him smelled like sweets and the display cases were bursting with colorful confections and frosting and little chocolate balls and eclairs and—

“Thank you, Geoff,” His mother added warmly, already rewrapping the scarf around John’s neck.  “I’ll have your suit ready for you on Monday.” Mr. Hughes just chuckled, callused hands clasped together behind his back. “Anything for you, Sarah. The missus and I wouldn’t have a decent stitch to wear if it weren’t for the ol' Watsons.” He turned his cheerful gaze back to John, eyes crinkled. “And now the youngest Watson isn’t all too young himself— happy birthday, Johnny.”

And with that, John and his mother were off once more, package now cradled in John’s arms.

“Now John, dear, today I’m going to take you to the shop and show you how everything works, but you must be careful not to touch anything I don’t show you, yes? We have a lot of very expensive things in there and we must pay attention to where we put our hands. You’re eight years old, I trust you to behave.”

John, hand clutching his mother’s as she strode down the street, listened attentively. He had been going to the family’s shop for years, doing homework or reading books behind the front desk as his mother worked, but he had never before been allowed to touch the gigantic machines or rows of garments that rumbled by. He knew, theoretically, that his mother cleaned and fixed clothing for a living- her deft fingers were quick to sew rips in his pants or patch up his jackets, but he had no real idea what went on to make something ruined, dirty, or torn, back into a perfectly ironed piece of respectable apparel. He thought it must be something like magic.

When they arrived, the shop was already whirring and rumbling with the force of the machines, and Margaret, a younger member of the staff, was already settled at the counter, organizing payment stubs into a filing cabinet. 

The bell at on the door chimed as the Watsons entered, and Sarah began taking the white box out oh John’s hands and unwrapping him once more. Margaret looked up from her work, breaking into an infectious grin at the sight of John. “Johnny, luv, happy birthday! How old are you now m’dear?”

John blushed at the sight of Margaret (or Margie, as she had insisted he call her), and took the present back from his mother when she had finished taking his overclothes. “I am eight years old today,” he announced over the din of the machines, “And I got something from Mister Hughes!”

Margaret winked at Sarah as she passed by, hanging up their coats behind the counter, and gestured for John to come closer, patting the stool beside her. “Well come on up here, Mister Watson, and let’s see what that nice old baker made you, mmm?”

John placed his package on the counter and carefully climbed up the stool. “I think it is probably a cake,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Mister Hughes makes a lot of cakes.” Margaret nodded sagely, and watched as John opened the container with care.

Nestled inside of delicately crumpled gold foil was a beautiful miniature bundt cake, with chocolate syrup drizzled on top. John shot a delighted look at Margaret, and she nodded at him seriously. “That was an excellent guess, Johnny. Spot on.”

“John! Bring your present back here and let me store it in the fridge!” Sarah, who had retreated to the backroom, popped her head back out, and Margaret shooed John fondly off the stool, handing him his cake to bring to his mum.

In the back of the shop, where rows upon rows of garment bags hung on labelled rails, the noise was much louder. John followed his mum to the makeshift break room, where an electric kettle and a small fridge held lunches, snacks, and now, a bundt cake.

“We’ll have the cake after dinner, John,” Sarah promised, “But for now, do you want to learn how we make clothes nice again?”

John nodded, following his mum into the machinery rooms, and patiently listened as she explained the differences between wet and dry cleaning, of PERC, decamethylcyclopentasiloxane, and how to sew up a torn hem, and realized that if he could learn to fix things and make them beautiful in the way his mother could, then he’d be happy.

It was only nine years later, when his mother succumbed to cancer, that he realized he was better at fixing people than fine clothing, and he left the business to his older sister, Harriet, and threw himself into medical school, and then into the army.

It’s a pity that gunshots aren’t as easy to patch up as wool coats or silk scarves.


	2. Incompetent Twits

Sherlock Holmes was excellent at many things.

He was particularly gifted with violin, having practiced for hours with an unparalleled focus, until he surpassed his peers and then his tutors, mastering piece after piece until he began composing his own work. By the time he was nine, however, he had outgrown his musicality, and composed and practiced when he required comfort, rather than to challenge himself. 

His childhood goal (becoming a pirate on the high seas) had been mocked by his elder brother, and thus the search began for new conquerable territory. He deleted knowledge of tides and celestial navigation, but retained, and later refined, fencing (for purely practical reasons, of course), and spent a few months privately studying international politics (a realm his brother was quickly finding a foothold in). 

As a result he was fluent in French and German, and learning conversational Russian, when the sudden, bizarre death of an eleven-year old in the paper caught his eye. It was then that his mother’s work began to call to him, and he began to question the natural world. Bedtime stories about the complex physical and mathematical laws which governed life were recreated in his bedroom, amongst textbooks and a chemistry set purchased by mail. 

His experiments, which began tamely as dissections of roadkill and frozen mice purchased at the pet food store, grew with him in a way that the violin had been unable to. The older he was, the more complex the chemicals he could manufacture, the more delicate his experiments, the more fascinating the results. 

Once he had assembled enough data to begin extrapolating, he had begun calling it “deduction”. (“Sherlock, your reasoning is ‘abductive’, or ‘inductive’ at best, not ‘deductive’. If you were deducing, you wouldn’t be as wrong as often as you are.” “Shut up, Mycroft. If you didn’t want me to know how many pastries you’ve eaten today, you should’ve at least attempted to remove the powdered sugar from your collar.”) 

But by the time he was able to use that information accurately on others, he was also old enough to realize that he was different in unshakable, irrefutable way. It takes a grand total of thirty years, seven months, twelve days, five schools, two stints in rehab, and a particularly gruesome case at Scotland Yard for Sherlock to meet someone who understands him. 

Not, of course, that he had any idea he was about to do so. 

\---------------- 

“What are the incompetent twits thinking?” 

Sherlock stood in front of the closed sign, hazardous materials bag clutched in a white-knuckled fist. ‘London Quality Dry Cleaners & Dyers will be moving locations! :)’ proclaimed the sign on the door. Already, most of the inside of the shop had been cleared out, and a quick glance at the other signage seemed to imply that the building was due to be renovated into a residential space. 

Sherlock’s lip curled in disgust. He had only just moved to Baker St., but he had quickly grown fond of the convenience of the dry cleaners across the street. They were (or had been) open late, a rarity in the dry cleaning business, and with the assistance of generous tips, had not yet barred him from entering. His habit of contaminating clothing, as opposed to simply ‘staining’, had made finding skilled and tolerant dry cleaners difficult. 

But regardless of his irritation now, he had little choice but to seek out a different shop in London. Had it been any other article of clothing inside his bag, he might’ve simply thrown it out, but the rather unexpected explosion from the intestine of his last victim had left his ulster coat severely damaged. He simply did not have the money to replace it, having not yet found a flatmate for his new home. He could either ask Mycroft for a loan (unacceptable), or find another shop still open at nine o’clock in the evening (annoying). 

All in all, it wasn’t much of a choice. He hailed a taxi, and after some rapid-fire googling, managed to find a small shop, squeezed between several apartment complexes and an Indian buffet, only a fifteen minute drive from Baker Street. Sherlock paid the cabbie and examined the front of “Watson & Co. Cleaning and Tailoring” with distaste; gone was the starch professionalism of the quality chain. For heaven’s sake, this shop looked like a family business. Questionable decor aside, the “Yelp” reviews were good and they were open late on weekdays. If they ruined his coat he would simply have to take a few private cases (no doubt cheating spouses and missing jewelry) and ruin the business in vengeance. He pushed open the front door, a bell attached to the door giving off a warning jingle as he stalked in. The front counter was unmanned, but before he finished taking in the surroundings, a middle-aged redheaded woman trotted in from behind racks of hanging closet bags, peeling off large yellow gloves and approaching with a crooked smile. 

“Hullo there, and what can we do for yeh today? I don’t think yer here to pick up Ms. Margie’s dress,” She chattered in an appallingly rough Scottish brogue, pulling out a large binder from beneath the countertop and setting it in front of Sherlock. “So ‘ere’s a list of our services; at this time of night we can do cleanin, but unless you have measurements we canna do tailoring on a walk-in.” Sherlock smiled winningly, lifting up the red plastic bag (clearly labelled “HAZARD”) the Met had given him after their forensic team had finally returned his coat. “I need this cleaned as soon as possible.” 

The woman’s eyebrow cocked, and she seemed to finally take in Sherlock’s appearance— wrinkled and windswept from days chasing drug mules and their employers across London. “Just a wee moment, sir.” 

She gathered up her gloves and marched out of the room, leaving the binder free for Sherlock to examine. Rates were reasonable, but not as cheap as he might’ve expected from the little shop in the middle of nowhere. They offered several cleaning services, as well as “restoration” of damaged clothes. Sherlock eyed that section a bit more closely— he could easily imagine using those services the next time someone ruined one of his nicer suits on a case. The scimitar-wielding assassin two months ago had left the lining of his winter coat shredded, and if this cleaning job went well, replacing a lining should be simple work. 

He continued his previously interrupted perusal of the store with a sniff, now alone once more. A few well-placed smiles and a bit of acting would hopefully offset the discomfort of the staff with the job— and based on the homey, sturdy wooden decor of the place, “Watson & Co.” had been around for at least a few decades. If they couldn’t handle themselves around a bit of fresh blood and intestine, they could hardly be called “cleaners”. 

No need to mention the fact that they were _human_ intestines, of course. The victim hadn’t had any dangerous blood or tissue-borne pathogens, so the only real danger was to his coat, or perhaps his chequebook. 

Sherlock straightened, putting on an air of polite chagrin as the woman reappeared from the rows of clothes, gloves still tucked beneath her arm. “Is there a problem?” He questioned, widening his eyes. “The bag’s not as bad as it looks, I promise.” 

The woman chuckled, eyes crinkling reassuredly. “Oh, s’no problem, sir. Just had to make sure Watson was about to deal with your lot. He’s the one who handles the special orders.” 

Sherlock nodded sharply, and set the bag on the counter with a thump (and a slight “squelch”, if he was being entirely honest). “This contains biological contaminants. I am willing to pay for extra services if that is required.” 

The woman’s nose crinkled subtly, and she hastily adjusted her apron and moved towards her rubber gloves once more. “All right, then. Can ye write down the materials and when they became embedded in the fabric? And any details about the clothing you can recall?” She slid open a drawer behind the counter and removed a clipboard and form, motioning to the fishbowl of flower-tipped pens. “There’ll be some extra charges on there depending on sizes- I can give ye an estimate, but there’s a twenty ‘er so percent variance on special cases like yers with price.” 

Sherlock nodded along with her, eyes narrowing as he picked a fabric-rose-tipped-pen from the fishbowl of neon-green pebbles. Taking the clipboard, he began to fill it out, noticing the categories for “biological contaminants” also asked for an exact description of the type. There was a subsection for “bodily fluids”, but that also requested specificity. He finished the sheet, and returned it to the woman at the counter, who had been cheerfully clicking away at the keyboard, and popped up from her seat when he offered her the clipboard. 

She read through his information, mouth quirking as she got to the end. “I think the quote will be about what’s on the page. We get plenty of yer sorts in here. Just had an order from the sweet old Inspector who works down the way, y’know. Do ye have your documentation with ye?” Before Sherlock could reply she was already filing away his paperwork, and was shuffling through the cabinets beneath the counter once more. “Ah! Found the big bags. A’right, let’s stick that in ‘ere, lad.” She slid Sherlock’s coat in a large, sturdy yellow bag, and scribbled on the front of it in a thick sharpie before waving her hand at Sherlock dismissively. “Come back t’morrow and we’ll have yers ready. And next time, just have it shipped in with the rest of ‘em, and then you can put it on ‘er majesty's bill, eh?” She chortled to herself, pushing back through the racks of clothes. “‘Ave a nice evening!” 

Sherlock, surprised and delighted to realize the woman thought he was on Scotland Yard’s payroll, walked out of the cleaners’ shop with a miniscule skip in his step. He already had at least three ways to make Lestrade cover the charges for the mess from his unauthorized autopsy, and couldn’t wait to return to Watson & Co. the next day with a stolen badge, credit card, and a winter coat that needed mending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, BEHOLD.
> 
> I'm sorry this took so rudding long, but it turns out chemistry is hard, as is life.
> 
> Chapter three is almost done being edited, though, so the turnaround should be more along the lines of a week, rather than a couple months, and then there's only a few more chapters in this lil baby story.
> 
> As always, any and all feedback is appreciated- comments, kudos, and bookmarks are my muse(s)!


End file.
